Soliloquy
by only here in your arms
Summary: "But she says one word, one word that I think may apply to me, but how can I be sure when I haven't talked to her in a long time?"  One-shot


**This is a one-shot! Or maybe two, I don't know yet. I've been out of the writing game for a while, not sure when I'll be back full time but I felt like writing tonight. I hope some of you got to meet the Degrassi cast when they came to the states! It seems like those who went had an amazing time and if you went, tell me about it! And Season 11.5 is back TOMORROW (for the US)! So exciting! I'm scared for this part of the season but now all I want is the FROSTIVAL. Can we just skip to it? I'd love that.**

**So enjoy this little drabble. Thanks for reading and please review!**

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><p>Every school day is the same. First period math is easy, since what we're doing right now is so simple that I'm pretty sure a senior isn't supposed to take this level math. Second period is history and that bores me to death but we practically watch movies every day so at least I get a lot of writing time in. Third period is gym, which I try to avoid as much as possible but whenever I can't I just try to avoid getting injured by the guys who take the class way too seriously. Fourth period is drama, which Bullfrog didn't want me to take but I took it anyways, and when I'm not in charge of the school play, it's actually pretty fun. Then I spend lunch in the radio booth with Adam while he's on air and sometimes we have a game where I throw grapes into his mouth to see how many he can catch.<p>

But after lunch is the class that I dread but love and look forward to at the same time. You may ask how that is and that's because it's Advanced English 12 with Ms. Dawes. And also the only Grade 11 taking the Grade 12 class.

Clare.

I walk to class, already feeling my palms sweat, and it's not because I'm nervous. Well, maybe a little. I always have to watch what I say in that class. Not because Clare would criticize what I'd say, she's not that kind of person, but sometimes I feel like I'm going to criticize myself for what I say in front of her. I'm pretty sure she doesn't care what I say, probably doesn't listen, but no matter how hard I try, my heart pounds as I walk to class and take my seat.

She makes me nervous and I feel oddly feminine about it. Aren't the girls suppose to have the 'butterflies in their stomach' feeling about the guy they like? I'm not a girl nor do I like this person.

Well, I'd be lying to myself if I said that was true. Feelings like the ones I had…well, have…for Clare just don't go away. Believe me, I've tried. So hard in fact that I had to go to the nurse and lie down. True story.

I take out my notebook and place it on my desk, bringing out the assignment due today. It's an essay about how we see ourselves in 5 years. Ms. Dawes said that it would be easy for us to write about how we see ourselves in 10 years but giving us such a limited timeline would make us think more, how we realistically see ourselves. I ended up writing about hopefully being finished with college and maybe starting to write a novel. But mostly I wrote about being healthy, never having to think about taking my pills and not having to need my therapist anymore. I want to be fully independent and I'm hoping it won't take the entire 5 years to do so.

I'm reading my essay when I sense that Clare has taken her seat in the room and unconsciously I watch her bring her assignment to her desk as well and start reading it. I smirk to myself, noticing how she's written on the front and back and three sheets of paper in her neat, curvy handwriting. Clare's always been driven and she's probably known exactly where she wants to be 5 years from now, giving her ample material to write about.

Now my skimpy 2 page paper seems underachieving.

Ms. Dawes enters the room with a smile, ready to collect our essays, but she first asks for volunteers to read theirs aloud. When no one raises their hand I could tell that Ms. Dawes was going to make everyone do something, a maniacal look on her face.

"Well if no one will share, I would like everyone to summarize their paper in one word and say it to the class," she says, her hands clasped together. "Let's start with…"

She goes in order of the seats and I wait for my turn, trying to find the perfect word for my essay. I hear everyone else's shallow responses such as 'wealthy' and I try to come up with something more original. When Ms. Dawes calls my name, I look up and say the first word that pops into my mind.

"Healthy."

In my peripheral vision I see people nodding, liking my answer, and I see Clare in the front of the room two rows to my right, smiling a bit and looking at me. When we lock eyes, she smiles lightly bigger and I look down at my paper, unable to hide the happy blush on my face.

I don't pay attention to everyone else's until I hear Ms. Dawes call Clare, asking her what she wants her life to be after 5 years and suddenly all of my attention is drawn to the only red polo in the room. I try to imagine what she'll say. Knowing her she probably will use more than one word, unable to summarize her intricately planned life into one, solid word. But she says one word, one word that I think may apply to me, but how can I be sure when I haven't talked to her in a long time?

Clare takes a deep breath and while looking into my eyes, she says her word.

"Forgiven."


End file.
